The Goat, the Pendant, and the Sobby Lass
by kirsant
Summary: 'Become an Auror,' they said. 'You'll catch dark wizards,' they said. Well 'they' are all fracking liars, as Harry Potter finds out the hard way.


It was a tuesday, and Harry Potter was interrogating a goat.

Harry Potter did not like this. In fact, he was not at all – no sir, not even one little bit – inclined to spend his daytime hours questioning goats, cows, or any other member of the extended bovine family. But government bureaucracy is a pervasive beast, and even Boys-Who-Live have to quail before its senseless and often ludicrous plodding.

So how was government bureaucracy responsible for Harry's current predicament, you ask? Good question!

It all began at the Ball…

 **. . . .**

The Founders' Ball was the event of the century. At least, that's what the newspapers called it, even though the new century had only just waxed its pretty little behind into existence. Still, journalists have to make their bread somehow, and what's a little sensationalism compared to the legion of plagiarisms, falsifications and blatant fabrications that all plague the fourth estate? So, the 'event of the century' it became, and the Ministry PR machine latched onto the catchphrase quicker than a babe to a mother's teat.

Now, that's not to say that it _wasn't_ a big event. It was.

You see, nine months ago, a group of magio-archaeologists in the Siberian steppes unearthed a whole treasure cove of artifacts. Whether it was through careful deliberation or merely pure luck was a matter of some debate, but the fact of the matter stood: hidden within the wilderness, straight in the bosom of that vast country known for its delectable borsch and heart-warming vodka, was a small residence, still well-preserved, that had ostensibly once belonged to the late Salazar Slytherin.

...A grand total of two British scholars, upon hearing of the discovery, promptly passed due to euphoria-induced heart attacks. That number could have actually turned three, but Professor Binns, of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was already dead, and so his own heart attack went entirely unnoticed both by the students snoozing in his class as well as the ghost itself.

But, back to the matter at hand.

The British Government, needless to say, was ecstatic about the discovery and negotiated full access to the archeological find. Several top specialists were dispatched. At the end of a nine month survey, it was safe to claim that their journey had delivered a resounding success.

The small house had indeed, at one time, been inhabited by Salazar himself. The following discoveries within his domain were almost unfathomable to the academic mind. Personal journals, diaries, and correspondence with his contemporaries (including the other Founders) allowed a new, unfettered glimpse into many shrouded histories of the past. His working journals, detailing extensive experiments in both potions and charms, prompted a revolution within those fields of magic. Already, over a hundred academic papers had been published based solely on information from his notes.

There were copious amounts of artifacts, as well. Salazar's "dacha", as it came to be known, hosted a wide variety of gems, precious stones, and goblin-wrought jewelry, all of the magical variety. Tastefully placed throughout the place were also spell-imbued lamps from the middle east, cases of fossilized remains from extinct magical creatures, fauna that had never even been heard of, and many, many other things. In short, the wizarding world was in a furor.

But the true gem of the collection turned out to be a deceptively simple necklace. The silver relic, dubbed 'Salazar's Pendant', was determined to contain extraordinary healing and cursing properties. It was tested on a late-stage Dragon Pox patient, and the treatment was a resounding success: the incurable malady went into full remission within hours, and the patient was able to depart the hospital only a few weeks later, whereupon he was bowled over by a rampaging hippogriff and died.

But that was really just a case of bad luck.

Anyways, during the course of the archeological survey, the British Government, obviously an interested party in the endeavor, managed to negotiate a release of a few objects for an exhibition back home. It took some time, but on the ninth month, the Russian Government, in a generous gesture of goodwill, acquiesced upon the condition of the objects' return. Britain agreed. The artifacts, Salazar's Pendant among them, were then stowed and shipped under full guard to the island nation for a period of two weeks.

And that was how the Grand Founders Ball came to be. While the entirety of Magical Britain's public interest had been piqued, only the _creme de la creme_ would get first glimpse at the titillating relics, thus feeling the breath of history, so to say. This included lawmakers, titans of industry, and hordes of simpering socialites that, much as a candiru fish to a man's genitals, always attach themselves to those who wield even a scintilla of power.

Harry, Hermione, and Ron, who had all gained a fair bit of notoriety in the aftermath of the war, were obviously at the top of the invitees list.

And so, mixed in with the upper strata, the famous trio bore witness to the unveiling of Salazar's relics firsthand. They were all astounding works of magic and ingenuity that bedazzled the imagination. Harry became mesmerized by a prototype of a flying broom, Ron almost drooled over a tablecloth that conjured any food imaginable, and Hermione, who had stayed quiet all evening, perked up for a moment at the mention of thick spellbooks.

And then, last of all, was the Pendant.

The Hall became quiet – even the chattering airheads in the audience, sensing the gravity of the moment, fell silent. It turned dark; only a single magical light focused its rays into the center of the room, where a golden-trimmed cloth concealed a raised pedestal. There was a drumroll, and then the curtain slowly rose.

The whole crowd gasped. There were cries, and shock, and yelling. For the Pendant, the priceless Pendant that had been loaned by a foreign government, was gone.

And in its place was a goat.

And the goat said:

"BAAAH."

 **. . . .**

Within minutes, the situation escalated into a diplomatic incident. The Russian Ambassador, sputtering with fury, was demanding explanations from various Ministry officials. Of explanations there were none, of course; of desires to shove the blame onto somebody else, there was plenty.

The curators were called. Then, security. And finally, the Auror Department.

And that's when Harry's problems began. Because in all the ensuing chaos of the burgeoning scandal, someone from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement classified the goat as a suspect. And to the paper pushers in the Ministry, once a suspect has been named, then protocol must be followed, which, in this case, dictated that the suspect must face interrogation. Such a wondrous task fell to the lead investigator on the case; and the lead investigator, as you may have well guessed, turned out to none other than the prominent Boy-Who-Lived, Hero-Of-Ages, You-Know-Who's Bane...in short, Harry "I Hate Dursley" Potter.

Now, Harry had very little desire to question a goat. He rightfully believed that his time could be spent effectively elsewhere. But when he attempted to deliver this facet of knowledge to the most ferocious of all office warriors, the DMLE's head, Augustus Hedge, he was met with a indignant sort of incomprehension.

"But, Mr. Potter," protested Augustus, squinting out from behind his rotund cheeks, "Article 7, section B of the Auror Code explicitly states that the suspect in any on-going investigation must be interrogated post-haste."

"Yes," answered Harry, who knew better than to argue about articles and subsections with a career bureaucrat, "but the 'suspect' in this case has four hoofs and a tail! It's not a person!"

The office plankton at the desk gasped with a horrified expression. "Mr. Potter!" it exclaimed, "I would like to remind you that under the Articles of Magical Cooperation, centaurs are classified as a sentient species, and this sort of discriminatory discourse goes against everything the current Ministry stands for! I find it reprehensible, no, downright abhorrent, sir, that a man in your position would utter such befouling–"

"I was not speaking of centaurs," Harry gritted the words through his teeth. "But of the goat that was mistakenly classified as a suspect due to _your_ department's error!"

Mr. Hedge blinked. "This is...regarding the Salazar Pendant Robbery Case?"

"Yes!" Harry almost threw his arms up from happiness, but then the next words made him want to cry.

"I was under the impression that a suspect had been named."

"Well, yes," sputtered Harry, "but it's a goat! Do you understand me, it's a–"

"Mr. Potter," interjected Mr. Hedge, heavily. "Article 7, section B of the Auror Code explicitly states that–"

"Thank you, Mr. Hedge," said Harry, keeping as much acid out of his voice as possible. "You were, as always, most helpful to the cause."

The sarcasm was entirely lost on DMLE's head honcho. "You are certainly welcome, Mr. Potter," the bulbous man replied, patronisingly. "Should you ever have any other questions, remember that my door is always open."

Harry smiled tightly and tried not to slam said door on the way out. He wasn't entirely successful.

 **. . . .**

The goat's name, as it turned out, was Mr. Boris; at least that's what the small name tag around his neck proclaimed. He was determined to be a regular goat, Nubian, _Capra eagagrus hircus,_ weight: 81 kilos; height: 97 centimeters.

He was not the pendant; he had not been transfigured or charmed or otherwise magically manipulated in any way. He was just goat.

Mr. Boris, as any suspect without means (we do live in a civilized society, after all), was assigned free legal representation by the Ministry.

"I will advise my client not to speak," croaked Mrs. Perzu, who was so old that she could probably remember Dumbledore as a wee little tyke, running through the garden patches, barefoot.

"Baah," said Mr. Boris, ignoring the sound advice of his lawyer, which just goes to show that all criminals are stupid and want to be caught.

"Alright." Harry tried hard to refrain from rolling his eyes at the absurd situation. The quicker he could finish this, the better. "Mr. Boris, can you account for your whereabouts on the night of the seventeenth, that is, yesterday, between nine and eleven PM?

Mr. Boris was a very helpful goat. He answered, "Baah."

 _Suspect unresponsive to questioning,_ jotted down Harry in his official Auror workbook, cursing the bureaucracy that forced him to act in such an obtuse manner, and then added, "Alright, Mr. Boris, thank you for your cooperation. At this moment, it is my duty to inform you that you are no longer classified as a suspect, and the Auror Department apologizes for any inconvenience it may have caused. However–" he held up a hand, forestalling Mrs. Perzu's righteous anger "–I am holding you as a material witness until such time as your role in the robbery of Salazar's Pendant can be determined."

"This is outrageous, young man!" yelled Mrs. Perzu, trying to smack Harry with her walking stick. "My client is innocent! You have no cause no detain him!"

"The robbery has been deemed a matter of national security," countered Harry, avoiding the deft blows, which were much too spry to be coming from a witch in her...well, he didn't actually know _exactly_ how old Mrs. Perzu was, but she was _old._ "As such, I have broad authority in this matter, and can detain your client for a duration of 730 hours without warrant."

"Despicable!" raged Mrs. Perzu. "I will be filing a motion with the courts and a civil suit against you personally! This abominable tendency of treating suspects like cattle must be stopped in its tracks!"

"Baah," agreed Mr. Boris the goat, furiously shaking his bearded head.

"Take them away," said Harry tiredly, directing his comment to the one-way magical mirror. When Mrs. Perzu and Mr. Boris had been vacated from the premises by the guards, he collapsed back down into the interrogation chair, and sighed heavily. The case was just beginning, and already he had a staunch desire to chuck everything to hell and take a Portkey to Majorca. He didn't know why Majorca specifically; he just knew it was warm there. And nice. And probably quiet with a complete absence of goats and degenerate civil servants.

The brief moment of solitude was not meant to last. With a sudden rustling sound, an interdepartmental memo wriggled its way under the door and smacked Harry in the face. With a startled cry, You-Know-Who's Bane swore and clutched his eye, cursing memos, his job and the whole wide world at large. But the cherry on top was the memo's author: Augustus Hedge.

 _I was disheartened to recently become aware,_ Harry read, still rubbing his eye, _that the suspect in the Salazar Pendant Robbery Case (One Mr. Boris) has been released and that no charges were pressed. It is my duty to inform you that the honor of our nation rests squarely upon your shoulders, Mr. Potter, and that only a speedy resolution to this investigation can guarantee…_

"Blah-blah-blah-blah," Harry spat, rolling the stupid paper into a ball and chucking it at wall. His feelings thus expressed, he rose from his seat and stomped out the door.

He had a case to solve, Goddammit. And so solve it he would.

* * *

 **Won't be long, just a few chapters.**


End file.
